


my soul wanders and it troubles me still

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, poet!frank, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've been staring at your notebook for half an hour, Frank."</p>
            </blockquote>





	my soul wanders and it troubles me still

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a poet!Frank AU for, like... forever. And this isn't really what I planned originally, I was just listening to Nirvana at midnight and suddenly this happened. I'm still planning on writing my original idea, though, but... who knows when. I don't.
> 
> Title taken from Frank Iero's poem, [Spittin' of the Dock of the Bay, Wastin' Time](http://frank-iero.com/post/90516708324/spittin-off-the-dock-of-the-bay-wastin-time).

"You've been staring at your notebook for half an hour, Frank."

Frank's pretty sure it's been more than half an hour - it's feels like he's been sitting here for half his _life_. He knows what he wants to write, knows the feeling he wants to convey, that warmth he feels in his entire body when Gerard smiles at him in the morning, or hugs him from behind while he’s washing the dishes. But the words just aren’t coming, and it’s making his entire body feel heavy, weighed down with all the words he _knows_  are in there, swirling somewhere in the back of his mind, but that he just can’t get _out_.

"Frank," Gerard repeats, sounding mildly concerned when Frank just keeps staring at the blank page in front of him, knuckles white around his pencil.

"Okay," Gerard says, crawling over to Frank's side of the couch. He pulls the pencil out of Frank's grip, as well as the notebook, and puts both items on the coffee table.

"They'll come to you," he says, resting his chin on Frank's shoulder, nose skimming that soft patch of skin just below his ear. "They always do."

Frank knows that. He knows that he'll wake up one morning with the perfect words spinning in his head, and by the time Gerard wakes up he'll be scribbling too furiously to kiss him or even say good morning. But Gerard will just smile and doze in the bed for a while, watching the way Frank's hands move across the page, stringing words into lines and lines into poems that Gerard will read over a cup of coffee while Frank's at work - he has this thing where he hates it when people read his writing in his presence; says it makes him anxious like nothing else. So he's given Gerard permission to go through his notebook as long as he's not present or aware, because it's not that he doesn't want to share, it's just... high school left some traces.

But Gerard doesn't mind any of this. Never has, because he knows how it feels, knows the fear and the pounding of your heart, the heat in your cheeks. So he'll only open Frank's notebook if Frank's at work or asleep or making dinner or watching TV, back against the headboard of their pillowtop queen and legs crossed as he turns the pages, feeling things that he has only seen Frank manage to describe, using words like _wondrous_ and _fragile_ and _eternal_ , and it all makes something twist and pound and burn in his chest, hot and cold and excruciating but still the best thing he's ever felt. And afterwards he'll walk out into the living room and sit down next to Frank, will hold his hand while they watch Masterchef, or he'll slide under the covers and push his pale fingers through the spaces between Frank's tattooed ones, smiling in the dark as Frank unconsciously rolls closer and fits himself against Gerard's side.

And that's how it'll be. How Frank knows it'll be, and it's the safety and warmth that this knowledge brings him that he's trying to put into words, but so far he's been failing.

Gerard's speaking the truth, though - they'll come to him. They always do. It always sounds better when it's not forced, anyway. But it's still annoying, because the feeling that he's trying to describe is one he feels every day, yet he doesn't know how to express it. 

He can't help but think, though, that maybe that's what makes it so great. That's it's too big and consuming to be told in words.

That night he dreams of syringes and bomb planes, warheads made of book pages and destroyed cities littered with broken pencils, letters falling out of the sky like napalm.

When he wakes up the first thing he sees is Gerard, mouth open and messy hair covering his closed eyes. The words still aren't there, but somehow, he can't see why it matters.


End file.
